


Executor's Mercy

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Castration, Community: bloodyvalentine, Dark, Gen, Troll Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a punishment, it's symbolic. But the symbol itself is unbearably powerful: you have been found wanting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Executor's Mercy

They come to meet you in the rooms that will no longer be yours, as you are straightening the last of your things and making sure you've left instructions for their disposition. "Former Executor Darkleer," the troll in charge of the execution squad says, "in recognition of your caste, you have the right to plead guilty and forgo trial." You try to remember her name. You've worked with her on previous assignments. "How do you plead?"

You know what you have done. There is no point to pretending otherwise. "My actions were inexcusable," you say, and the archeviscerators behind your interrogator relax infinitesimally. "I accept the charges."

Executor...Firebite? Fearbite? something like that; you can't remember—says, "If there are extenuating circumstances, the court would give you a chance to explain yourself." The suggestion is hardly protocol, and you find yourself surprised at the display of camaraderie.

"There were no extenuating circumstances," you say. _Extenuating circumstances_ typically means a quadrant attachment, but you had no such excuse. You had never seen the wild little greenblood before; claiming pity at first sight is ludicrous and you still only half believe it yourself, even though it plainly happened to you. "I had orders, and I failed in them."

"Then it falls to us to carry out your sentence," your executor says. "As a highblood with over two dozen sweeps of loyal service to Her Imperious Condescension, you are sentenced to exile rather than execution."

You can barely believe your ears. The option has always existed, but it is almost never taken; mercy is not a quality found plentifully in Alternia's systems of power. "But how— _why_ —"

"The Grand Highblood said, and I quote," Executor probably-Firebite says, " _let him think about what he's motherfucking done._ "

Your digestive sac roils. There is such a tangle of messages in that command: does the Grand Highblood think you too contemptible for a clean death? does he think you honorable enough to punish yourself more thoroughly than a quick execution could do? does he want you to spend your solitude atoning for your treason, that you might one day be useful again? "I have no doubt that I will do so," you say.

"Then there is only one task left to us before we escort you out of the city," the executor says.

She gestures with one gloved hand and the crackle of psionics surrounds you, dragging you down, pinning you to what was your desk. You make an exceedingly undignified noise, and struggle, but your exceptional strength is useless against immaterial restraint. Executor Firebite came well prepared.

"Don't tell me you would have held still for this," she says. "Nobody does." She reaches for your pants.

You were so stunned by the leniency the Grand Highblood showed in not ordering your death that you forgot about this part. Now you grit your teeth, trying not to let yourself wince as Executor Firebite peels your trousers open and draws her short blade. As a punishment, it's symbolic; you provided your genetic material to the drones sweeps ago. But the symbol itself is unbearably powerful: you have been found wanting. You have been spared a culling but your genetic material is trash, your ability to produce it destroyed. The humiliation unnerves you more than the threat of pain.

Then she begins to cut you and you realize you underestimated the pain drastically. Your rational mind knows that struggling is futile and could even lead to more severe damage. Your body tenses and shudders anyway, helpless to make this _stop_ , all your nerves on fire as the Executor's blade slices into your most tender flesh. Your bulge writhes, as if it could flee independently, as if it could hide inside your body until the pain stops. Executor Firebite holds your globes in one dispassionate hand—professional, notes the distant part of your mind already in shock; she's not trying to crush them, not trying to amplify the pain more than her orders call for—while her other hand guides the knife, cutting through skin and tendon and soft tissue. You're choking on the need to fight back, and there are thin, strangled whimpers in your auricular sponges which you realize in horror are your own.

Your vision is blurring when she pulls back, but you can see her gloves are night-blue with blood. Your thighs are slick. This isn't over.

There is no room for an executor to show pity; that is how they wind up where you are now. Executor Firebite shows you the one appropriate mercy: she is efficient. She presses the hot cautery iron to your flesh, and her psionic assistant stops you from slamming your legs closed and burning yourself further. The heat is unbearable. You can smell your own flash-cooked blood and charred flesh.

When she steps back and her psionic releases you, you can't swallow the first sob in time. You slump to the floor and your body curls in on itself, an automatic reaction, as if you could protect yourself from the Grand Highblood's justice, as if you could soothe the pain by hiding it. You can feel the beat of your blood in your—in the wound, and it feels like the terrible bright-white burning is carried through your veins.

Executor Firebite gives you time to collect yourself. You make the best use you can of her unconscionable generosity, breathing through the shakes and willing yourself to calm; you have displayed enough weakness for one night. Indeed, in the last perigee, you have displayed enough weakness for the rest of your life. When you can bear it, you reach for the desk and use it to lever yourself to your feet. The wood splinters in your hand; you can't control yourself that finely at a time like this. At least the matter of replacing the furniture will no longer be your problem.

Fastening your trousers is an excruciating ordeal. Your hands shake and it takes all the effort you can muster to avoid tearing the fabric. The execution squad look embarrassed, and you try to salvage some pride from that: let them see your dignity. Let them know that while you may have erred grievously, you are still a troll of noble blood and bearing. It's small comfort when you are in agony.

"By the Grand Highblood's orders, we must remove you from the city tonight," Executor Firebite says. "Can you walk?"

You want to do nothing of the sort. "I will manage," you say. You wonder if you should thank her for her professionalism and grace in handling your...your exile. Perhaps if you were alone. But you are not alone, and you will not risk having her come under suspicion due to your foolish urge to express gratitude. "I am ready."

Executor Firebite nods. "If you collapse, we will have to carry you," she says.

You nod. "I will do my best not to inconvenience you," you say.

The first step is utter misery. But it is more reprieve than you deserved. You take it.


End file.
